Gigolo Turf Wars
by Matrix Refugee
Summary: Jake Jacobi, actor in training and “shall we call it an escort?”, hasn’t had much business, and it only gets worse when a certain greeneyed love machine invades his turf.
1. Chapter 1

+J.M.J.+

TITLE: Gigolo Turf Wars

AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"

RATING: R (Sexual themes, including off-screen slash)

ARCHIVE: Yes

FEEDBACK: Please, please, please, please!!!

DISCLAIMER: DreamWorks holds Joe's license, I just borrow 'um once in a while. (I also don't own the verse of "Keep the Customers Satisfied", which belongs to Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.)

NOTES: This is an old idea I dusted off recently in an effort to try to get some stuff out of the binder I keep my WIPs in…. Long before I started writing all these crazy "A.I." fanfictions (Just call me this fandom's Lope de Vega, after the world's most prolific author!), I had written a novel (As of yet unpublished), "The Magdalen Man: Enter the Scrawny Runt", which described the early history of Josef "Jake" Jacobi, self-proclaimed bad Catholic, a former "Poor little rich kid" turned actor who had to put himself through acting school by working as (in his words) "shall we call it…an escort?" After I first saw "A.I.", I couldn't help wondering what would happen if Jake should cross paths with a certain green-eyed love machine. I would imagine Jake would hate Joe's components (can't say "hate his guts", he ain't got any!) and Joe would find the competition amusing, but I was careful to "ask" Jake what he thought would happen; he replied, "Speaking subjectively, if good looks could kill bad looks, Jude Law would have only to look at me out of the corner of his eyes and I'd sprawl stone cold at his feet. But I think you want the objective viewpoint…Oh, of course Joe and yours truly would be butting heads and trying to one-up the other and matching wits—and probably matching pricks. My friend Shotsie McCoy would probably find it immensely funny to watch." 

The setting is New York City in the year 2023, following the passage of the Sex Workers' Protection Act of 2020. Imagine you're in Jake's shoes: you're short, you're thin as a rail, you're dark, but you definitely aren't handsome, and you have to make ends meet by selling your body at two hundred dollars a poke…and there's someone hedging on your turf who's better looking than you…but is he really a man?

SUMMARY: Jake Jacobi, actor in training and "shall we call it an escort?", hasn't had much business, and it only gets worse when the ultimate threat invades his turf.

Rainy nights are bad for business in my profession. The only takers you get are the ones who've called ahead. Very few potentials show up in between calls in the bar of the Hotel Satine over on 10th Street, where the agency I work for operates from. I usually pick up at least half a dozen customers most nights, but not tonight.

I knew the night was off to a bad start when I discovered, in between the few calls I had earlier in the evening, I was flat out of rubbers (Never mind that most of them are made of vinyl now). This meant I had to make a quick dash to a drug store, which nearly made me late for my last assignation in a hotel room. This probably sounds like nothing to you, but when you're a $200-an-hour escort with an image to maintain, it's a big deal. It's like being a high profile techcorp CEO (like my father), and getting caught buying your own CD-RWs at Staples. It's a tougher job than you think, and in this industry, image is everything. Talk of being caught with your pants down!

A cab and a bicycle messenger almost clipped me on the way back to the hotel afterward. Not the first time; I should be accustomed to the perils of Manhattan traffic by now. Trouble is I'm hard to see since I'm so bloody short. But I have nine lives like a cat: all whores do, man or woman.

I managed to get back to the Satine in one piece, wet but alive. I ran upstairs to the agency headquarters to change into a dry shirt and spruce myself up for anyone who might come in, and to check and see if anyone had called looking for my services. Or looking for me. I've been at this for about two and a half years now, and some women are asking for me specifically, usually by sight ("The short, dark guy/the skinny runt/the guy who's so funny-looking he's cute"; I had one older customer call me "The one who looks like Joel Gray") but sometimes by name, but even then they don't often get it right. I've been called Jay or Jack or Joe, rarely Jake.

On my way into the bar, on the way back to my usual spot at a table, where I can see the whole room and be seen, but where the light falls just the right way so it doesn't make my too-thin face look like a skull, I spotted this tall (okay, he might have been five-foot ten, but I'm five-foot even, so anyone above five-foot five is tall to me), slim guy in black, whom I'd never seen before. At first I figured he was some newbie I wasn't aware of, but he looked like he knew what he was doing. The way he walked across the room, just that simple act alone made everyone's eyes turn toward him. I mean, damn, this guy was _beautiful_; I'm comfortable with my masculinity, but this guy's looks made me stop and stare. He carried himself excellently, like some danseur from the New York City Ballet. At first, I wondered if he might have been some actor or dancer or something out slumming (not that the Satine is in slum territory. I'd have to call it demi-mondaine). But there was something odd about him, something that suggested he wasn't out to buy: he was out to be bought. He had that slightly cheap look that haunts all whores, even the highest-priced ones. Hell, he looked like he was made for the oldest profession. He looked like he might be about my age (23), but he had the air of someone who's been at the trade for most of his life. He glanced my way, but he seemed not to take much notice of me, or at least it didn't register in his eyes. Come to think of it, he had this weirdly vacuous look about his eyes, and they were the oddest shade of green, the kind you see in wine bottle glass, but which you never see on a human being. Must have been really cheap colored contact lenses.

At the same time, I spotted a potential customer ahead, a blonde sitting alone at the bar, her head in her hands, clearly needing consolation. I started toward her; so did the weird guy with the impossible green eyes.

I was passing by a table occupied by two women in their forties, giggling over their wine glasses. One of them stuck out her foot and tripped me. I sprawled on my face. The two women howled with laughter; I got up and dusted myself off.

"So much for my grand entrance," I said, to no one in particular.

As I looked up, looking for my quarry, I saw her wobbling away from the bar, with the tall, weird guy supporting her out.

'Hey, that's MY customer!' I thought.

Only a few more girls showed up after that. I didn't spot Impossible Green Eyes after that, but he could have come back for more while I was engaged.

I had turned my ankle when I tripped, which obliged me to favor it without limping for the rest of the night. By the time quitting time came around, it had gotten pretty sore. Usual bad luck. I was glad to head home and crash on my couch bed.

"Oh, I have seen too many beds

But I have known too little rest…" Aldonza wasn't kidding.

@--`--

I limped home at five o'clock in the morning, in the dull gray of a rainy pre-dawn.

Neve, the folk singer over near the subway station, not far from my apartment high above a cybercafé on Seventh Avenue, was on the verge of taking down her set up as I hobbled past where she stood against some movie posters, tuning her six string guitar for a last set.

"Hey, Jay, what's that, Dustin Hoffman in 'Midnight Cowboy'?" she asked.

"'I'm walkin' here! I'm walkin' here'!" I hollered (I don't sound like Dustin Hoffman any more than I look like him; I'm told I sound like Vincent Price with laryngitis). Neve and I started this game where one of us picks a movie and tries to cue the other into guessing it. She'd play a swatch of the main melody of the movie theme, or I'd do one of the more famous lines from it, whoever had won the last set.

"I'm afraid I can't play tonight."

"Wuz wrong?" she asked in this mock-motherly voice.

"Bad night: no tips."

"Yeah, I have those a lot, too. It'll pick up."

"I hope so." I limped away.

"Catch you later, Jay." She struck up the second verse of "Keepin' the Customers Satisfied."

"'Deputy sheriff says to me

Tell me what you come here for, boy,

You better get your bags and leave.

You're in trouble boy, and now you're headed into more.

It's the same old story:

Everywhere I go, I get slandered,

Libeled, I hear words I never heard in the Bible

And I'm one step ahead of the shoeshine

Two steps away from the county line,

Just trying to keep my customers satisfied'."

I could have choked her.

I crashed on my couch bed in the tiny rooms I call my apartment—the artist in his garret!—and slept like a rock until the clock ran eight. Get up, wash, shave, treat any injuries from the night before, breakfast, then hit the street again, going to classes at the New York School of Drama. Again, Jake Jacobi, actor in training, no worrying about rivals with impossible green eyes.

Nightfall. Jake the actor goes into hiding, the other Jake emerges: Jay or Jack or Joe the escort. Love for sale. Good things come in small packages.

That night made up for the previous night. I'm worth $200 an hour (It would be $500 if I got myself vassed), and the agency lets me keep my tips and half the fees that I earn, so do the math. Upwards of a thousand a night is not to be sniffed at. The last client even slipped me a hundred dollar tip. No taxes, but I'm licensed to the eyes and I have the Health Department on my back every third week even though I'm inoculated against seven major STDs and I keep the hygiene protocol.

Home again! Four hours of sleep a night is all I need. And no dark strangers with weird green eyes haunted the turf.

Another slack night hit me a week or so later, and this was a real washout. I actually had to swallow some of my principles just to make enough to afford this month's groceries. Man cannot live on sex alone. I don't like doing this kind of stuff, but if one of my own kind is the only person who asks for it, so be it. I don't detest this thankfully infrequent part of the job because I'm bigoted; I detest it because I'm straight. Some students get lucky and they pay their way through college flipping veggie burgers; I ended up with a much older profession.

One advantage of this part of the job: I've learned not to grit my teeth as some guy is going at me, which has actually helped me be a better actor. I have no problems with stage fright or camera shyness.

It wasn't an easy call, either; I ended up with more than the usual cuts and bruises. It sometime seems every time I oblige this breed of customer, I get the worst of it; I wish I knew why. My waif-thin appearance seems to attract the types who like the rough stuff. Try patching yourself up with Band-Aid Clearseal and covering that with foundation as a fairly regular part of your job!

I got help from one of my colleagues, an older guy known as Shotsie McCoy. You might almost call him my mentor in the industry; if I wanted to stay, which I don't, he'd be the kind of guy I'd try to emulate. Turns about twelve tricks a night even on dead nights, and he's not much better looking than I am. He's managed to rack up a coterie of regular customers.

"You always manage to get the tough customers, Jake," he said, covering a bruise under my left shoulder blade with foundation.

"Must have something to do with my frail waif appearance," I said. "Now to make this a really f---ed up night, will the weird guy with the green eyes show up?"

He looked at my face in the mirror. "What weird guy with green eyes?"

"You're never on the floor long enough to see all the stuff that goes on here. The other night, this dark guy with green eyes showed up. At the same time, I see this likely looking blonde at the bar, so I go to keep her company. Then someone sitting at a table puts their foot out and trips me. When I pick myself up, the blonde is going off with the green-eyed dark guy."

"You sure it wasn't her boyfriend?"

"No, she didn't seem to know him."

"I thought the free-reiners were banned from this block?"

"He must be so new in town, he doesn't know the rules," I said as he handed me a clean shirt.

We've had trouble in the past with free-reiners working off our turf, which has led to some rather nasty turf battles. I've sat on more than my share of guys' heads while Shotsie and a couple other colleagues beat the s—t out of the intruding punks.

We were just coming downstairs when I looked off to the left, into the bar. I saw him.

Unmistakable: the same green eyes, the same achingly slender physique, the build and grace of a danseur. He passed from the bar to the lobby in easy, long strides, escorting a tall, gangly redhead. When they stepped out into the light, I saw he'd bleached his hair blond since the last time I'd seen him. I could hear them talking, not the actual words they said, but loud enough to hear their voices. He had a softer voice than my deep-throated rasp, and he seemed to have a British accent, the real thing, not like my stagy-sounding mockery of one, which has earned me the nickname "the Inglish Lord" or "the British guy from Awlb'ny".

Shotsie looked at me. "That the fly-by-night? That the sneaky f---er?"

"Yeah."

"Thought you said he was dark."

"He looks like he bleached his hair."

The couple went out into the night; said fly-by-night closed the door behind them both.

"Well, I can see why you'd have your dander up: you and I put together ain't half as good looking as he is," Shotsie said, looking at me. "But look at it this way: the fella looks wet behind the ears—check that, he looks wet all over the face. Is he that green that he forgets to dry it on his way out? If he's that green, he probably wears shorts."

"Probably is so green he forgets to put the seat up when he's taking a leak."

"Hey, don't get too nasty: we're the ones whose only asset is our strong personas."

"The last time he showed up, it was as rum a night as this one."

Shotsie screwed his mouth into a tight smirk of agreement. "It always happens: it never rains without pouring."

"I believe it."

"I'll keep an eye open for him, in case he shows up again. Maybe he'd like us to show him the ropes." The smirk turned into a fiendish grin. "We'll letcha take a poke at him."

"It would almost make up for the trouble he's cost me."

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

+J.M.J.+

TITLE: Gigolo Turf Wars

AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"

RATING: R (Sexual themes)

ARCHIVE: Yes

FEEDBACK: Please, please, please, please!!!

DISCLAIMER: DreamWorks holds Joe's license, I just borrow 'um once in a while. 

Chapter Two

I had two more clients that night, and one of them just wanted me to kept her company while she settled into sleep, which I found a little odd, but I hid my puzzlement as I always hide not wholly appropriate emotions. It wasn't as easy a task as it sounds: she snored something awful.

At least I didn't have to limp past Neve this time, as I headed home. She was eating noodles from a paper cup as I passed her spot, which gave me an idea for the next round.

"Lo fa, ne-ko shi-ma, de va-ja blade runner," I said, trying to sound like Edward James Olmos.

She glared up at me. "Oh, not THAT awful thing. Dammit, Jay, that's one I can't play: Vangelis doestn't transfer well onto guitar."

"Then I guess I've won," I said. Something good happened tonight.

"Don't look so smug."

"I oughta, night's finally brightening for me now that it's over."

"What, the weird guy again?"

"Yep. Say, you wouldn't happen to know him."

"What does he look like?"

"Tall, green eyes, black hair except he just bleached it blond.

"Off hand, no."

"Talks with a British accent? Carries himself like a dancer?"

"Dances when he walks?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Why, he giving you turf problems?"

"Yeah, this weird newbie just breezed in tonight, walked off with a would have been client of mine."

"Too bad." She looked me up and down. "If I could afford you, I might. How much?"

"Two hundred, but I can negotiate."

"Nah, I'm lucky if I see two dollars."

I thought I'd prime the pump; I dropped five dollars in her guitar case.

"Thanks, Jay."

I shrugged. "Hey, we're all in this together."

@--`--

Business as usual kept me hopping every night for a week or so after that…until the next dead night. I had only two customers between seven and midnight. It was about time for the weird guy to show up.

Then, luckily, one of my regulars called, a girl who gives decent tips, an artist named Cecilia, who lives down in the Village.

My only problem there was that she lives in a railroaded apartment, you know, one of those really crummy places where you can't get any privacy because you have to walk through everyone else's room to get to where you're going. And there's always someone walking through to get to the remote shared bathroom at the head of the hallway, just when things are starting to really heat up. I always get a little self-conscious about going up to her place, but she really can't afford a better room, so she says. One time this old lady walked in and started preaching this sermon about company keeping, just as I dropped my trousers. Try keeping a straight face in that situation! Thankfully, the old lady was blind as a post, or else we'd really have heard some histrionics. Then there's the geezer who's always lugging the case of beer through, who always yells, "Hey, get a room!" at us; he thinks it's the craziest line in the world. It used to be.

Perhaps the reason why Cecilia gives good tips is to compensate the lack of privacy, but that hardly matters to me. The tip does.

But she does demand perfection. She noticed something, a spot of mud on my forehead, so she sent me back to wash up: "No dirty hustling allowed!" she told me.

"I thought you said you liked it dirty!" I shot back.

I got held up when I finally reached the bathroom. The pregnant Filipino lady in the third room from the bathroom was having evening sickness, I so I had to wait for her to be finished coughing up her insides and for Bob the wallboard hanger, her child's father (their marital status is unclear), to help her back to their room. And then he starts trying to chat with me: "Hiya, Jay, you callin' on Celia again?" etc. At least it beats the way he used to greet me when he found out what my line of work is: "Hey, Jay. How's tricks?" You just _don't_ say that to a whore, male or female. You just _don't_.

I finally got back ten minutes later and found a third person in the room. Not the old lady. Not the geezer with the case of beer, not the divorced woman on her floor who's always asking for me, but whom I KNOW couldn't afford me without being paid by someone else (I've done divorced women before, but this one looks like major trouble: she looks as if she lives off her alimony, and has three guys who each have to work two jobs to support her and their offspring. And they call me a gigolo.)

Nope, HE's on the bed next to Cecilia, right where I was just ten minutes before, Mr. Tall-Dark-Green-Eyed-Thing (his hair was black again), not a hair out of place, his whole person spit-and-polished, talking her up with that smooth mellow voice of his (mine's a little raspy).

That did it. Now I was mad.

I ran to the bed, breaking several land speed records in the process. I slugged the weird guy in the shoulder. He looked up at me, curious, but not irritated. Any other guy would be scowling at me.

"What brings you here, manikin?" he asked, humorously, as if trying to disarm me.

Now honestly. If there's one thing that really gets me in a lather, that really ties my shirt in a knot (I can't say shorts, I don't wear 'em.), it's being called something like "manikin". I don't need words longer than me said to my face to describe my height or lack thereof, especially by guys who are taller than me.

I lunged at the interloper and log rolled him over Cecilia, off the bed, onto the floor. Thankfully, I ended up on top. I grabbed him by the throat and tried to throttle him, but he held my wrists in a vise-like grip. I had to let go or have my circulation cut off.

"Jay, let him alone! I didn't think you were coming back after you took so long," Cecilia cried. "I'm sorry."

The stranger sat up, pushing me aside. He started out of the room, paused, turned at the doorway and said to her, "Forgive me, I did not know you already had a lover."

I jumped up. "Better start running, because I'm after you!" I roared.

He turned on his heel and fled. I mean, this bugger took off like the devil was after him. Come to think of it, it probably looked like the devil was after him. I wish I could have seen it from the outside, like on film or in a mirror. It must have looked hysterical to everyone whose apartments we ran through, this tall British pretty boy getting chased by this ugly, disheveled guy a foot shorter than him. I only got glimpses of consternation and fright on faces of the housewives and their husbands as we sped through.

I'm short, but I have long legs for my height, so I caught up to my rival before he reached the stairs. I cornered him on the landing, grabbing him by the shirt collar.

"Where in hell did you come from?!" I demanded.

He glanced away, past me to the floor, thinking.

"I came from Pennsylvania," he said at length.

"Well, go back there, punk, this is MY turf!" My Albany accent cracked through at that point, so "Thiss iz my tu[h]rf" came out like "Thissiz my teyrf!"

"You need not speak so irately; had I known the lady in question was previously engaged, I would not have tried to approach her."

"Never mind! You took two potential customers away from me, and now you just about stole another out from under me!"

I backed him toward the stairs; he took each step with a graceful ease, as if it were a dance, as if he'd been dancing all his life and he could turn the merest step into a mini-ballet.

He stepped down onto the second step, which brought his face almost level with mine. He took my snarling with utter calm. A slight smile played about his mouth—just the right width for his narrow face, mine's a little too wide for my rat-thin features. 

"Had you been more vigilant, I would not have had the opportunity to interlope."

"That gave you no right to butt in!" I snapped, taking another step down, backing him down the stairs.

"'Gather ye roses while ye may'. You did not keep so a good watch over the roses entrusted to your care."

"You think you could do a better job, country boy?" He might have been an immigrant, even with that accent. "You think you could?" His calm smugness really got to me; I'm not violent, but I thought I'd show him what I'm made of. He might be taller and better looking than me, but I might just have the harder fists and the bigger balls.

I slapped the side of his face. His eyes went totally blank for a second, before taking on a "Why'd you do that?" look.

"THAT'S for the blonde that rainy night." I backed him down another step. I slapped him again. "THAT'S for the redhead." Another step down, another slap. "THAT'S for almost getting Cecilia!" Another step, another slap. "And if there's any other women you've swiped from me, take THIS"—step, slap! —"And THIS"—step, slap! —"And THIS!"—Step, slap!—"And THIS!!!"

His hand flew up; his long fingers wrapped themselves around my wrist, holding my hand away so I couldn't strike him again. As he stepped back from me, the front of his open-collared shirt bagged open slightly and I looked down inside. I expected to see the shadows of a set of pecs a lot better looking than mine.

If he had 'em, I didn't notice. Instead, I could hardly help noticing an edge of green against his skin. I tugged his shirtfront down slightly.

Some kind of green glow-in-the-dark plastic strip was glued to his skin just under his left collarbone. At first I wondered, now what kind of weird fashion is this coming over the pond? No, wait: it wasn't glued ONTO his skin, but INTO his skin. It looked like some kind of ID tag with a barcode of some sort printed on it.

"What the hell is that tag-thing stuck on your skin?" I asked.

"That is my operating license," he replied, matter of factly.

My hand lost some of its lock on his collar. "Well, uh, w-what exactly are you?"

"A Generation-Five lover robot," he replied.

My hand on his shirt went absolutely limp. I let him go; the robot's hand released its grip. He really wasn't a HE, I realized. He was an IT.

"Sorry, my mistake," I mumbled, not sure what else to say.

He—it—glanced over my shoulder with an odd little smile. "Perhaps it would be in your best interest if you returned to your inamorata, lest another take your place in your absence," it—he—said.

"Yeah, uh, right, thanks." I shuffled away from him—it—and went back to Cecilia's room.

My heart wasn't in what we were up to after that, but two and a half years of getting it on in the weirdest places and with every kind of woman imaginable have made me a master of the fine art of faking it.

@--`--

I started shaking all over afterwards, once I was safely headed back to the Agency.

I'm no Luddite by any stretch of the imagination, or I don't think of myself as being one. My father is the CEO of one of the largest techcorps in the country, which specializes in smart houses, smart garments and universal wireless Internet connections amongst many other things, so it's not like I'm not familiar with a lot of the technological advances of the past twenty years. I was just never keen on robotics; even small household things the Roomba, the Frisbee robot vacuum cleaner, my mother had made me terribly nervous, to the point that I'd break out in a sweat. I don't even know why. It's probably something psychological, but I couldn't tell you why. I was tempted to ask one of my regulars who happens to be a psychologist to analyze this quirk of mine and give me a rational explanation for it (If I could ever get her to put down that damn stopwatch she uses to time orgasms. God, that creeps me out.).

But I knew part of the reason why I started trembling after I discovered my rival was a robot. It's that universal fear of being replaced by someone—or in this case something—else better than you. It's not like it hasn't happened before. I've had otherwise die-hard regulars stop coming around for me because they'd found someone better looking than me. But a machine, albeit an artificially intelligent one? That makes my hair stand on end.

I told myself there's less cause for alarm than I thought: there'll probably always be women who prefer flesh over plastic. Just because cars were invented, doesn't mean no one keeps horses any longer. There'll always be an oldest profession and plenty of demand for labor for it, so long as people still have bodies and hormones.

@--`--

I deposited the few fees I'd collected with Damien, the secretary/receptionist/bookkeeper and went up to meet up with Shotsie in his room up in the rafters before I went home.

I found him curled up on his bed with a book; he'd made his three thousand odd and he'd earned the rest he deserved.

"Hey, what was in that cigarette you gave me when I got here?" I demanded, dead earnest.

"Only the finest Z-grade tobacco," he replied with a straight face. "Why?"

I told him about the robot who came to call. He listened patiently, open-minded. He knows I don't drink and I'm not in this racket to pay for my addiction. No, I'm trying to make my addiction pay for itself and then some.

"Weird," he said. "Y' know, I think I heard they've had these things over in Europe and Asia for a while, but I didn't know they'd made a male one."

"Yeah, well, it can't do what we can any better, can it?"

He wagged his head. "Maybe no, maybe yes."

"If anyone could build something like that, it wouldn't be any better than a dildo with legs and a brain."

"Thing is it might not be able to do on better than us, but it might be able to turn more tricks in a day than we could. Doesn't need to sleep, doesn't need to eat, doesn't tire, doesn't have to stop and take a leak. Let's see…mmm, say our robo-rent boy costs around thirty thousand dollars. He's easily worth three hundred a poke, if not more. He could probably pick up twenty tricks a day, so…twenty times three hundred…"

"You sound like that gangsta math test the teachers in L.A. made up some years back." Urban legends are another of my hobbies.

He ignored me, tracing invisible numbers on his fingers. "That would bring him six thousand a night. So he might need only five nights like that to pay for himself."

"Whose side are you on, McCoy?" I snarled. "Figures. Just because I need the cash, to live on, I get the worst kind of rival: one who doesn't have to eat."

"He's probably a demo model they're field testing. Besides, that little tag thing on his chest might turn off a LOT of women. You might have nothing to worry about, Jack."

"MIGHT have nothing to worry about. I'll believe it when I see that beggar GONE."

"Hot damn, I bet a guy like that would be really easy to clobber," Shotsie said, that delighted battle smolder coming into his eyes. "Say the word, little man, and I'll get Jules and Dorian on the look out for him. If the silicon hustler wants to mix it up, we'll show him how we do it in New Yawk."

I gulped. Somehow, I didn't like the idea of Jules and Dorian getting in on this. This thing didn't seem capable of defending itself or fighting back. I didn't want to think about those two sick minds getting mixed up in this. I'd seen them do some pretty nasty things to our rivals…with broken glass bottles.

@--`--

"Hey, Jay, is that a ghost you're impersonating?" Neve asked as I tried to pass by her unnoticed. She started playing the main theme from "Vertigo".

"Huh? No, why?"

"You're face is as white as your shirt."

I told her about my awful night. I waited for her to come up and sniff at my breath, but she didn't.

"Y' know, I heard some talk about some robotics company over in London was shipping a lover model this way. They've had 'em all over Europe for years now. Part of me has always wondered what something like that would be like."

"Dammit, I'm surrounded by anti-sex worker activists!" I groaned aloud.

"Hey, I meant it in theory, bro."

I breathed a mock sigh of relief, my hand laid delicately over my chest. "Be still my beating heart—of flesh."

But I went home with the beginning of an idea…


	3. Chapter 3

+J.M.J.+

TITLE: Gigolo Turf Wars

AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"

RATING: R (Sexual themes)

ARCHIVE: Yes

FEEDBACK: Please, please, please, please!!!

DISCLAIMER: DreamWorks holds Joe's license, I just borrow 'um once in a while.

Chapter Three

Another week passed, then yet another slow night befell me. Cecilia, Tammy, Georgia…a couple other regulars thank God for them, or I wouldn't have earned any decent cash that night.

I was walking back to the Hotel Satine, walking so that the yellowed street lamps and the neon lights of the clubs would catch on my figure, keeping my eyes open, to watch for anyone who looked interested—and to show off one of my very few assets. I'm not much to look at, but I've had customers tell me that they just had to look into my huge dark eyes to change their minds about me.

I looked up the length of the street, up the crowded sidewalk, I saw heads turning, looking back, mostly women's heads, but a few men's heads as well. People stepped aside with unusual graciousness.

A tall, lithe figure made his way through the crowd, coming toward me, half swaggering, half on the verge of dancing. Why just walk when you looked like that? I have to hand it to him, he had the kind of looks I would kill for. The lights gleamed off his patent-leather slick hair, off his wide-skirted leather coat, off the slightly iridescent front of his shirt, off his too perfect skin and his too glassy eyes. He covered the distance between us quickly, but without hurrying, with an easy, nonchalant agility. Think of Fred Astaire's cool grace and eloquent elegance combined with Gene Kelly's easy charm and joie de vivre and flavored liberally with Frank Sinatra's slightly raffish sophistication.

He crossed one foot over the other, executing a perfect pirouette, the skirts of his coat flashing like slow lightning.

"Hey, you!" I called. "Hey, dancing Dan!"

He looked at me, or rather, his eyes swung down to me before he turned his head and tilted it down.

"Yeah, you, the lover-robot."

A thin smile of ironic amusement tweaked the corners of his mouth. "So the impolite manikin seeks to call for me by name—but he has the wrong name."

"Never mind that, it's totally irrelevant. I'm not interested in you, except for a little experiment. What's your hourly rate?"

"Two hundred dollars."

At least they weren't paying any more for it than they pay for me. "I can manage that. But like I said, this is NOT for me."

"If it were, I am not optimized for such services."

"Good, if you were, the very sight of my ugly mug would short out all your circuits."

"What precisely do you want of me? Have you a lonely sister?"

"I've got a friend who's interested in you."

His ears pricked up at this. "Indeed! And you have failed to delight her?"

"It isn't that; Neve and I are just FRIEND friends. Come on."

I put my hand behind his shoulder—man, the thing felt real, he felt warm; his body must have been artificially heated somehow to the same temperature as a flesh and blood human—and led him along the street to the subway entrance where Neve had her usual stand.

She was just setting up, tuning her guitar and humming a few warm-up notes. I made the robo-rent boy wait for me behind a phone booth.

"Hiya, Neve," I said, trying not to sound nervous.

"Hi, Jay. Isn't it a little early for you to be down this way or is business that bad?"

"No, I just wanted to know if you were interested in a free f---."

She wrinkled her nose at me and glared. "What's that you're on, stringer?"

"I'm clean. The boss does drug testing any way. No, I just got this idea: you told me that you wanted to find out what that handsome android was like, you know the one I mean, that weird guy I told you about that was cutting in on my business?"

"So where do I come into the picture?"

"He's waiting for you behind that phone booth over there. We've been arguing over who's better at making a woman happy, so I wondered if you'd like to help settle the argument. You won't have to pay a cent: it's all on me."

"Jay, that's a great idea as a theoretical experiment, but as an actual activity: no, thanks. I was with this guy who wanted it ten times a day, so I've had enough of that for very long time. And I'm considering joining the Dominican Sisters who run the women's shelter over on Houston Street. Y' know, sorta pay back and pay forward the help they gave me."

"Oh…okay," I shrugged. "Suit yourself."

I didn't know anybody else who'd be as unbiased as Neve. The best laid plans of men and machines…

I went back to where the thing waited for me.

"Hey, Joe, or whatever your name is."

He looked at me. "So, I gather she has selected me to be her first?" He—its—eyes started to kindle, or was that glow brighter (his eyes are electrical, after all).

"No, she doesn't want either of us."

"Indeed! Is she merely uninterested or is she a lesbian?"

"I guess she qualifies as uninterested: she's planning to enter a convent of nuns."

His face fell at this. "So unfortunate! With all of us unattached young men who would enjoy the pleasure of her company, she would deny us the delight of delighting her." His face took on a look of calm resignation, then resumed the elegant smolder that he seemed to wear as a trademark. "But this is her decision and we both—you and I alike—must respect it."

"Tell me about it; she's one of the most decent girls I ever met in this town. I guess this means you don't get your two hundred dollars. Sorry about that, Joe."

He shrugged, spreading his long, graceful arms slightly. "You need not feel so. You made the attempt; we had few options at hand."

"I just thought of something."

He tilted his sleek head toward me. "Regarding?"

"I don't think there's any way to really find out which of us is better at making a woman happy, because her choice would be biased by any previous experiences or, if she were a virgin before putting either of us to the test, she'd be most affected by the first one she lay with."

He shrugged again, a little less broadly. "There exist some questions that cannot be answered, to which we can never know the answer, even with perfect logic."

"Well, if that's the case, there's one thing you can do."

He cocked his head. "There is?"

I stood on my tip toes in an effort to get myself up to his level and look him in the eye as I said, "Get your pretty face and your silicon prick off my turf, you damned bucket of bolts!"

Said pretty face crinkled slightly as if to say, 'Can you not speak like a gentleman, you meathead?!', but he replied with a politely nonchalant, "As you wish." 

A blonde in a red dress and spike heels passed by, eyeing us both up and down. Of course her eyes lingered the longest over Joe the robot.

"Hey, honey, hey, green-eyes, how much?" she asked.

He darted a glance at me, and with the tone of a shared joke, he said, "Now this question I can answer."

Before I could object, he turned to the blonde and replied, "Two hundred an hour, milady."

"I bet you're worth every penny of it, too," she said. She slipped her arm through his, pulling him to her side. "Could you walk with me to my hotel room?"

I sighed and turned away to return to the agency. I couldn't stand it any longer.

Don't ask me where this bug came from that suddenly got into my head, but in private, and when I was having a profitable night, I felt a little sorry for Joe-the-robot. Wherever he was, when he wasn't on my turf, the poor thing was probably worked to exhaustion (if such a thing was possible) and he probably couldn't know the pleasure of one of the perks of the job. As a big for instance: I've actually been able to sponge a little extra cash off one or two of my wealthier regulars. Our Joe will never have the joy of bleeding a well-heeled woman of a few extra hundred dollars after you've fed her a sob-story about how you'd like to take a break from the racket for a while and go home to see your ailing mother before she dies, but how you can't since you've got college tuition, bills, rent, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I realized very quickly that whoever owned Joe was making a fortune. Our boy didn't have very many needs to pay for, just the occasional batttery or two and repairs. And he was likely to get abused worse and more often by less scrupulous clients.

I actually forgot about Joe for a while. I had a student performance of 

*Eugene Onegin* come up, so I had to take time out from work, which didn't please my boss too well, but he didn't let on.

But I quickly remembered Our Boy when I got back on the street.

"Hey, Jay!" Neve called to me one night as I passed by her. "Yoi might want to keep an eye open: Joe's been back." She played a few bars of what I realized was "Call Me" by Blondie.

"Guess I'd better make sure I look my best," I said. "Show that artificial Brit what we American gigolos are made of."

Something odd was in the air when I reached the Hotel Satine and headed up to my room, something almost like an aroma, just detectable over the usual tang of air freshener, perfume, liquor, and old wallpaper.

"Your old friend Joe the robot had been around," Shotsie warned me as I headed downstairs, him on my heels.

"Oh, what happened?" I asked.

"Not much, he pretty much kept out of our way, but then the other night, he kept disappearing with our tricks."

"That's odd," I thought, hoping against hope that the novelty was wearing off for our customers. "You said yourself that tag thing on his chest was probably a turn-off for most women."

"That's what I thought, but we both thought wrong. The sneaky f---er just about stole a gal right from under my nose."

"That's nothing. He just about stole one girl from under me." I don't know why but I immediately regretted saying that. 

We'd reached the lobby by now. I leaned against the balustrade, watching the door.

And, like magic, who should--almost literally--waltz in through the door but Joe the robot himself, heading into the bar. I had to admit, he was a pretty little tchotchke, but I doubted he was more than that. Sure, they gave him an electronic brain, but having him wasn't the same as having a flesh and blood man. I mean, you wouldn't have the element of risk, of a woman falling head over heels in love with her temporary innamorato, not unless she didn't mind making a fool of herself. I mean, we had one guy actually go off the floor permanently when he (GASP!!) married one of his regulars. I imagined (read: hoped) Joe would probably vanish when some very wealthy woman took a shine to him and bought him. But I doubted that would last long, since he probably who have an annoying habit of straying off on her, of falling back into his "old" ways.

"Whaddya say we really show this guy how we do it in New Yawk?" Shotsie asked, watching the lobby over my shoudler. "It's your call, Jack. I got Dorian and Jules waiting in the back alleyway."

My instinct was to a hissing "Yesssss!!!!" But my usually dormant better nature kicked in. "No, pal, I can't let you cut him up."

"Why, you got something for 'um? I thought you said you were straight and that's why you can't stand it when you a John calls for you."

"It's not that," I said. I don't know why of a sudden I was defending Joe. "He's just a harmless fella. I don't think he can defend himself, really."

"Yeah, well, we gotta do something about that thing."

I turned around; I was getting irritated now. "Listen, testosterone head, it's not the same as clobbering a regular guy. Any other fella can put up a fight. I don't think Joe's allowed to."

"Well, all the easier for us," he said with an evil grin. With that, he went downstairs.

My blood temp dropped from 98.6 to 75 in less than half a second. "Shotsie, y' can't do dis. Leave da bugger alone!" I called, my accent going from London to Awlb'ny.

"Shut up, Jack. I'm doing this for you, too," Shotsie said over his shoulder and stepped into the bar.

I darted after him, helpless as Shotsie caught up with Joe.

"Hey, you named Joe?" Shotsie asked, approaching him as he stood near one of the carved pillars supporting the ceiling.

Joe turned his flawless green eyes to Shotsie, one eyebrow rising quizzicallly. "They call me that when they ask for me by name."

"Yeah, we got someone who's askin' for you. We t'awt she meant skinny Jack, since some geyrls call 'm Joe," Shotsie explained.

Joe the robot smiled with barely veiled pleasure. "She must have been gravely disappointed when you presented her with that unsightly little mannikin." 

My blood temp returned to normal at that point. I wish he wouldn't call me that! But I couldn't stay mad: I knew too much.

"Damn right she did. She t'awt we was playing a prank on her first," Shotsie said, taking Joe by the shoulder and steering him toward the hallway. With Joe alongside him, Shotsie looked more plain than he usually does; the Roman nose he inherited from his Italian mother just looked large and beaky.

"In which case, I shall do my utmost best to alleviate her distress and  compensate her for her dismay," Joe said with a smile, ready to oblige. "And where does she desire this encounter?"

"She's waiting in the alleyway; she's curious about having it in a rough place."

"To each her own. Novelty can inspire flagging desires."

They passed me in the hallway. I ran after them.

"Joe, don't listen to him!" I called. "He's got two goons out in the alleyway. They're gonna beat the components out of you!"

"Aw, he's just jealous 'cause she threw him over for *you*," Shotise insinuated.

"He will have his moment," Joe said. "There are enough lonely women out there for us all to serve."

I trailed them through the back rooms, into the kitchen and out through the back door to the alleyway. Once they stepped out into the gap behind the buildings, Shotsie let go of Joe's shoulder.

"You wait here; I'll go get her," Shotsie said, heading out into the night, leaving Joe alone for a second. The bot looked about him, then pushed back the skirts of his long jacket, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets.

I touched his arm from behind. He stepped back to half turn toward me, his eyes swinging wide before he dipped his chin to look at me.

"Don't believe him," I said, dead-serious. "I'm not sore because someone threw me over for you and he's not going to find the girl who's looking for you. He's going to get his two cronies who're gonna clobber you for cutting in on their business."

"How do you know this will happen?" he asked, almost naively.

"I know because I've helped these guys beat the crap out of other guys who've tried to work off our turf."

I looked around for a usable weapon. I wasn't about to rip the lid off the metal dumpster off to one end of the alleyway.

Just at that moment, Beronica, better known as "Ronnie" the dishwasher came out with a metal can full of kitchen trash, heading for the dumpster.

"Hey, Ronnie, let me take that for you," I said, taking the trash can from her.

"Gee, thanks, Jack," she said, blushing. She has a crush on me, but on her dishwasher's pay of $7.25 an hour, she stands a snowflake's chance in hell of affording me. But for helping me out of this jam, I decided to reward her with a free one. Thank God she hadn't noticed Joe, who was looking at her curiously.

At that moment, I heard footsteps approach. Shotsie stepped back into the alleyway, Jules and Dorian flanking him in a kind of reversed flying wedge. I stepped back into the open doorway.

"Hey, Jack! Y' gonna pin our pretty-boy for us?" Shotsie yelled.

"Yeah, bring him on," Jules said, taking a pair of brass knuckles from his pocket.

"Get ready to meet yah match, plastic boy," Dorian said, taking a cigarette lighter from his shirt pocket.

From under his coat, Shotise produced an empty glass wine bottle, holding it by the neck. He swung it against one of the walls, smashing the bottom off.

Joe stared at them, his face blank, too-clearly not knowing quite where to run: a brick wall and a dumpster behind him, three thugs in front, and me blocking the kitchen door with the trash can.

With a roar from the gut, I hoisted the can over my head and lunged out, dumping the trash over Shotsie's head. I slammed the bottom of the can into Dorian's face, keeling him over. Jules swung at me with the brass knuckles, but I parried the blow with the can, kicked him in the knee caps and hit him over the head with the can, knocking him to the ground.

Joe ran for the open door, but Shotsie grabbed him by the coattails. He raised the broken bottle, aiming for Joe's neck.

I expected it to slash Joe's simulated flesh, but Joe's hand flew out, catching Shotsie's hand by the wrist.

Shotsie's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. his hand started to tremble and realsed the bottle, which crashed to the ground.

"Ow...OHHH! What the f---?!" Shotsie yowled. He twisted his arm trying to break free of Joe's grip. he tried backing away from Joe, but the 'bot just followed him.

"Care to dance?" Joe asked, almost facetiously.

"Lemme go! Leggo my hand, yer breakin' my wrist!" Shotsie screeched through clenched teeth. Even in the half-light, I could see sweat beading up on his brow.

And then as if a switch had been turned off, Joe let go of Shotsie's hand. Shotsie staggered back, panting, hobbled toward the kitchen, nursing his wrist in the other hand, the skin of his wrist turning purple, then bluish black.

He suddenly turned on me, eyes blazing. "I'm sure of it: you got something for this thing."

"Not the kind of something you've got on your mind," I said.

Without another word, Shotsie limped into the kitchen.

I turned back to Joe. "You better make yourself scarce," I said. Behind us, Jules and Dorian were starting to stir, recovering from the assault.

He looked down at them. "You need not tell me twice," he said. He turned on one foot and sped down the alleyway, out of sight, just as Jules started to prop himself up on one elbow.

I didn't see Shotsie for the rest of the night. Even if I had, I would have stayed out of his way. Before Ronnie went home for the night, I rewarded her for helping me out of the jam.

"This makes you a hero twice over," she said to me afterward, with me still on top of her. "You helped me give the people who diss me something else to talk about and you saved Joe from getting smashed."

"I couldn't just stand by and let three guys wreck him," I said. "You know the stereotype runty kid who gets clobbered by the grade school bully and jeered at by the jocks in high school? That was me."

"You?"

"Yeah, you think the jocks got any respect for the guys in the drama club? They can't even put three words together and pronounce 'em properly, but they manage to corner most of the chicks through sheer brute charm. Fortunately, I had an older cousin who was on the fencing team at the same school. Many's the time Connor had to stick up for me when the linebackers started dissing me."

"But look at you now: and you're getting paid for it too."

"Don't rub it in: this is just what I do for work."

She changed the subject. "So you're paying it forward?"

I sat up and reached for my pants. "Don't turn me into a hero, Ronnie-girl. That's one role I never want to play, especially fro someone like him, who's been cutting in on my business."

"I think you already have," she said, grinning.

The following evening, I was heading out of a club on Houston Street, where I'd met up with someone in a back room, when I spotted Joe standing in the pool of light cast by a lamppost. I know, it sounds like the stereotypical place for a whore to stand, but the way he stood posed there refreshed that image: One hand leaning against the lampost, above his head, the other on his hip, coattails pushed back, one foot behind the other, watching the passersby with warm eyes and a smoldering smile.

I pretended not to notice him and kept walking by, long-stepping so my strides would give the illusion that I'm taller than I really am.

I heard someone's footsteps fall in alongside mine. I paused and turned to find Joe the robot at my side, giving me this ingratiating, cheerful smile that almost melted my heart, he was so damn cute about it.

"What do you want?" I demanded.

"I wanted only to thank you for saving my brain last night," he said. "What you did deserves the name of a noble act."

"I just didn't want you to get jumped by three guys," I said with a shrug. "But let me give you one bit of advice."

He leaned closer to me, head cocked. "You wished to say?"

"Go back where you came from," I snapped. "Next time three guys go after you, you might not be so lucky. You tell your owners or whatever to get you out of this racket. Tell 'em I said so. You don't belong out here on the street, robo-boy."

He had nothing to say to this, his face went slightly blank. But his usual gentle smolder returned to his eyes. He shrugged gracefully. "As you wish. I can only obey," he said.

"Then do it," I said, my teeth clenched.

Before he could say more, I walked away as quickly as I could, not wanting to risk seeing him go off with another customer and to get away from those too-shiny green eyes which I swear looked right through me as I walked away.

I later got the scoop on Joe from Damien the secretary: it seems that some android designers based in Pennsylvania had built Joe and sent him up to New York City (aka. Over-Sexed Women Central) for beta testing. But after Joe reported on the attempted violence directed at him by some of the local flesh and blood male sex workers (read: Shotsie and his cohorts), the designers withdrew our boy from street work.

@--`--

Thank God that was the last time I ever saw Joe the lover robot. It's been thirty years since this happened, and every time I see someone with a companion droid, I can't help remembering Joe the love machine. There's times I catch myself wondering whatever happened to him; my hope is some rich woman bought him and installed him in her home, but I doubt that ever happened. Them that built him probably just moved him to another city, plunked him on some other poor man whore's turf. It was bad enough I had to compete with flesh and blood guys who look better than me, and I was worse still that I have to deal with the anti-vice organizations that are always trying to shut down the only trade I ever found a decent paying job in till I finally got my acting career off the ground, I had to be at odds with something built specifically to do the same kind of work. Damn you, whoever you are, wherever you ware, who designed that thing!

The End


End file.
